sk.thetalisman-第37节

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　　'Why？'
　　'I　want　to　see　if　you　can　really　rock　one　of　those　kegs　up　on　its　side。　If　you　can　run　me　out　a　keg　when　I　need　one；　you　can　have　the　job。'
　　　
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　　Jack　demonstrated　to　Smokey　Updike's　satisfaction　that　he　could　get　one　of　the　big　aluminum　kegs　up　on　its　rim　and　walk　it　forward　just　enough　to　get　it　on　the　foot　of　the　dolly。　He　even　made　it　look　fairly　easy…dropping　a　keg　and　getting　punched　in　the　nose　was　still　a　day　away。
　　'Well；　that　ain't　too　bad；'　Updike　said。　'You　ain't　big　enough　for　the　job　and　you'll　probably　give　yourself　a　fucking　rupture；　but　that's　your　nevermind。'　
　　He　told　Jack　he　could　start　at　noon　and　work　through　until　one　in　the　morning　（'For　as　long　as　you　can　hack　it；　anyway'）。　Jack　would　be　paid；　Updike　said；　at　closing　time　each　night。　Cash　on　the　nail。
　　They　went　back　out　front　and　there　was　Lori；　dressed　in　dark　blue　basketball　shorts　so　brief　that　the　edges　of　her　rayon　panties　showed；　and　a　sleeveless　blouse　that　had　almost　surely　e　from　Mammoth　Mart　in　Batavia。　Her　thin　blond　hair　was　held　back　with　plastic　barrettes　and　she　was　smoking　a　Pall　Mall；　its　end　wet　and　heavily　marked　with　lipstick。　A　large　silver　crucifix　dangled　between　her　breasts。
　　'This　is　Jack；'　Smokey　said。　'You　can　take　the　Help　Wanted　sign　out　of　the　window。'
　　'Run；　kid；'　Lori　said。　'There's　still　time。'
　　'Shut　the　fuck　up。'
　　'Make　me。'　
　　Updike　slapped　her　butt；　not　in　a　loving　way　but　hard　enough　to　send　her　against　the　padded　edge　of　the　bar。　Jack　blinked　and　thought　of　the　sound　Osmond's　whip　had　made。
　　'Big　man；'　Lori　said。　Her　eyes　brimmed　with　tears　。　。　。　and　yet　they　also　looked　contented；　as　if　this　was　just　the　way　things　were　supposed　to　be。
　　Jack's　earlier　unease　was　now　clearer；　sharper　。　。　。　now　it　was　almost　fright。
　　'Don't　let　us　get　on　your　case；　kid；'　Lori　said；　headed　past　him　to　the　sign　in　the　window。　'You'll　be　okay。'
　　'Name's　Jack；　not　kid；'　Smokey　said。　He　had　gone　back　to　the　booth　where　he　had　'interviewed'　Jack　and　began　gathering　up　his　bills。　'A　kid's　a　fucking　baby　goat。　Didn't　they　teach　you　that　in　school？　Make　the　kid　a　couple　of　burgers。　He's　got　to　go　to　work　at　noon。'　
　　She　got　the　HELP　WANTED　sign　out　of　the　window　and　put　it　behind　the　jukebox　with　the　air　of　one　who　has　done　this　a　good　many　times　before。　Passing　Jack；　she　winked　at　him。
　　The　telephone　rang。
　　All　three　of　them　looked　toward　it；　startled　by　its　abrupt　shrilling。　To　Jack　it　looked　for　a　moment　like　a　black　slug　stuck　to　the　wall。　It　was　an　odd　moment；　almost　timeless。　He　had　time　to　notice　how　pale　Lori　was…the　only　color　in　her　cheeks　came　from　the　reddish　pocks　of　her　fading　adolescent　acne。　He　had　time　to　study　the　cruel；　rather　secretive　planes　of　Smokey　Updike's　face　and　to　see　the　way　the　veins　stood　out　on　the　man's　long　hands。　Time　to　see　the　yellowed　sign　over　the　phone　reading　PLEASE　LIMIT　YOUR　CALLS　TO　THREE　MINUTES。
　　The　phone　rang　and　rang　in　the　silence。
　　Jack　thought；　suddenly　terrified：　It's　for　me。　Long　distance　。　。　。　long；　LONG　distance。
　　'Answer　that；　Lori；'　Updike　said；　'what　are　you；　simple？'　Lori　went　to　the　phone。
　　'Oatley　Tap；'　she　said　in　a　trembling；　faint　voice。　She　listened。　'Hello？　Hello？　。　。　。　Oh；　fuck　off。'
　　She　hung　up　with　a　bang。
　　'No　one　there。　Kids。　Sometimes　they　want　to　know　if　we　got　Prince　Albert　in　a　can。　How　do　you　like　your　burgers；　kid？'
　　'Jack！'　Updike　roared。
　　'Jack；　okay；　okay；　Jack。　How　do　you　like　your　burgers；　Jack？'　
　　Jack　told　her　and　they　came　medium；　just　right；　hot　with　brown　mustard　and　Bermuda　onions。　He　gobbled　them　and　drank　a　glass　of　milk。　His　unease　abated　with　his　hunger。　Kids；　as　she　had　said。　Still；　his　eyes　drifted　back　to　the　phone　every　once　in　a　while；　and　he　wondered。
　　　
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　　Four　o'clock　came；　and　as　if　the　Tap's　total　emptiness　had　been　only　a　clever　piece　of　stage　setting　to　lure　him　in…like　the　pitcher　plant　with　its　innocent　look　and　its　tasty　smell…the　door　opened　and　nearly　a　dozen　men　in　work…clothes　came　sauntering　in。　Lori　plugged　in　the　juke；　the　pinball　machine；　and　Space　Invaders　game。　Several　of　the　men　bellowed　greetings　at　Smokey；　who　grinned　his　narrow　grin；　exposing　the　big　set　of　mail…order　dentures。　Most　ordered　beer。　Two　or　three　ordered　Black　Russians。　One　of　them…a　member　of　the　Fair　Weather　Club；　Jack　was　almost　sure…dropped　quarters　into　the　jukebox；　summoning　up　the　voices　of　Mickey　Gilley；　Eddie　Rabbit；　Waylon　Jennings；　others。　Smokey　told　him　to　get　the　mop…bucket　and　squeegee　out　of　the　storeroom　and　swab　down　the　dancefloor　in　front　of　the　bandstand；　which　waited；　deserted；　for　Friday　night　and　The　Genny　Valley　Boys。　He　told　Jack　when　it　was　dry　he　wanted　him　to　put　the　Pledge　right　to　it。　'You'll　know　it's　done　when　you　can　see　your　own　face　grinnin　up　at　you；'　Smokey　said。
　　　
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　　So　his　time　of　service　at　Updike's　Oatley　Tap　began。
　　We　get　pretty　busy　by　four；　five　o'clock。
　　Well；　he　couldn't　very　well　say　that　Smokey　had　lied　to　him。　Up　until　the　very　moment　Jack　pushed　away　his　plate　and　began　making　his　wage；　the　Tap　had　been　deserted。　But　by　six　o'clock　there　were　maybe　fifty　people　in　the　Tap；　and　the　brawny　waitress…Gloria…came　on　duty　to　yells　and　hoo…raws　from　some　of　the　patrons。　Gloria　joined　Lori；　serving　a　few　carafes　of　wine；　a　lot　of　Black　Russians；　and　oceans　of　beer。
　　Besides　the　kegs　of　Busch；　Jack　lugged　out　case　after　case　of　bottled　beer…Budweiser；　of　course；　but　also　such　local　favorites　as　Genesee；　Utica　Club；　and　Rolling　Rock。　His　hands　began　to　blister；　his　back　to　ache。
　　Between　trips　to　the　storeroom　for　cases　of　bottled　beer　and　trips　to　the　storeroom　to　'run　me　out　a　keg；　Jack'　（a　phrase　for　which　he　was　already　ing　to　feel　an　elemental　dread）；　he　went　back　to　the　dancefloor；　the　mop…bucket；　and　the　big　bottle　of　Pledge。　Once　an　empty　beer…bottle　flew　past　his　head；　missing　him　by　inches。　He　ducked；　heart　racing；　as　it　shattered　against　the　wall。　Smokey　ran　the　drunken　perpetrator　out；　his　dentures　bared　in　a　great　false　alligator　grin。　Looking　out　the　window；　Jack　saw　the　drunk　hit　a　parking…meter　hard　enough　to　pop　the　red　VIOLATION　flag　up。
　　'e　on；　Jack；'　Smokey　called　impatiently　from　the　bar；　'it　missed　you；　didn't　it？　Clean　that　mess　up！'
　　Smokey　sent　him　into　the　men's　can　half　an　hour　later。　A　middle…aged　man　with　a　Joe　Pyne　haircut　was　standing　woozily　at　one　of　the　two　ice…choked　urinals；　one　hand　braced　against　the　wall；　the　other　brandishing　a　huge　uncircumcised　penis。　A　puddle　of　puke　steamed　between　his　spraddled　work…boots。
　　'Clean　her　up；　kid；'　the　man　said；　weaving　his　way　back　toward　the　door　and　clapping　Jack　on　the　back　almost　hard　enough　to　knock　him　over。　'Man's　gotta　make　room　any　way　he　can；　right？'
　　Jack　was　able　to　wait　until　the　door　closed；　and　then　he　could　control　his　gorge　no　longer。
　　He　managed　to　make　it　into　the　Tap's　only　stall；　where　he　was　faced　with　the　unflushed　and　sickeningly　fragrant　spoor　of　the　last　customer。　Jack　vomited　up　whatever　remained　of　his　dinner；　took　a　couple　of　hitching　breaths；　and　then　vomited　again。　He　groped　for　the　flush　with　a　shaking　hand　and　pushed　it。　Waylon　and　Willie　thudded　dully　through　the　walls；　singing　about　Luckenbach；　Texas。
　　Suddenly　his　mother's　face　was　before　him；　more　beautiful　than　it　had　ever　been　on　any　movie　screen；　her　eyes　large　and　dark　and　sorrowing。　He　saw　her　alone　in　their　rooms　at　the　Alhambra；　a　cigarette　smouldering　forgotten　in　the　ashtray　beside　her。　She　was　crying。　Crying　for　him。　His　heart　seemed　to　hurt　so　badly　that　he　thought　he　would　die　from　love　for　her　and　want　of　her…for　a　life　where　there　were　no　things　in　tunnels；　no　women　who　somehow　wanted　to　be　slapped　and　made　to　cry；　no　men　who　vomited　between　their　own　feet　while　taking　a　piss。　He　wanted　to　be　with　her　and　hated　Speedy　Parker　with　a　black　pleteness　for　ever　having　set　his　feet　on　this　awful　road　west。
　　In　that　moment　whatever　might　have　remained　of　his　self…confidence　was　demolished…it　was　demolished　utterly　and　forever。　Conscious　thought　was　overmastered　by　a　deep；　elemental；　wailing；　childish　cry：　I　want　my　mother　please　God　I　want　my　MOTHER…
　　He　trembled　his　way　out　of　the　stall　on　watery　legs；　thinking　Okay　that's　it　everybody　out　of　the　pool　fuck　you　Speedy　this　kid's　going　home。　Or　whatever　you　want　to　call　it。　In　that　moment　he　didn't　care　if　his　mother　might　be　dying。　In　that　moment　of　inarticulate　pain　he　became　totally　Jack's　Jack；　as　unconsciously　self…serving　as　an　animal　on　which　any　carnivore　may　prey：　deer；　rabbit；　squirrel；　chipmunk。　In　that　moment　he　would　have　been　perfectly　willing　to　let　her　die　of　the　cancer　metastasizing　wildly　outward　from　her　lungs　if　only　she　would　hold　him　and　then　kiss　him　goodnight　and　tell　him　not　to　play　his　goddam　transistor　in　bed　or　read　with　a　flash…light　under　the　covers　for　half　the　night。
　　He　put　his　hand　against　the　wall　and　little　by　little　managed　to　get　hold　of　himself。　This　taking…hold　was　no　conscious　thing　but　a　simple　tightening　of　the　mind；　something　that　was　very　much　Phil　Sawyer　and　Lily　Cavanaugh。　He'd　made　a　mistake；　yeah；　but　he　wasn't　going　back。　The　Territories　were　real　and